Turnabout is Fair Play
by Superficial Faith
Summary: "See something you like, Signore? Or are you simply intrigued that you are not the only one who made it out of the war unscathed?" In the time without Alucard, Integra Hellsing forms a political alliance with Makube and the Vatican. Here, gold and iron are forged into something unstoppable—their only undoing shall be themselves.


_I._

The first time she meets Niccolo Makube is in a United Nations conference in Switzerland. She is twenty-four and he is twenty-two.

She sees him across the room near the refreshments at the reception, and though she has never seen him in person—only heard his voice and read his handwriting—she recognizes him anyways.

He's tall, broad, and his cassock does nothing to hide the concealed musculature underneath at his shoulders and back, and despite his youth, his grey hair and tired eyes made him seem older and more worn. He has only been ordained Archbishop twenty-six days ago, and he probably has not slept in weeks.

Integra can sympathize.

He does not have his translator from the Vatican with him, and his English is too heavily-accented, his Italian too fast and Florentine to interpret, and so she speaks to him in Latin instead, seeking to find some common ground because neither know or understand what they are in attendance for.

"Ah, His Holiness is in attendance. I know not what for. But, eh, is the same not true for your Queen?"

Even in this antiquated language, he's over-enunciating, rolling his r's needlessly, just to watch her confusion, just to see if he can set her on edge.

He's succeeding.

"Her Majesty is in talks with the Pope. The United Nations cannot afford another war."

Her Latin is clear, crisp, brought up on Homer and the Classics—textbook proper versus liturgical. It's in direct counterpoint to the mess that she considers his.

"Ah, your Protestant concept of 'peace.' Quite flawed, _si_?" He shrugs, grin curling at his lips. "But it is, eh, not my place to say. That is for His Holiness to decide."

She makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat at that, sips at the wine that is offered in refreshment to her, her good eye glancing towards the orchestra in the corner beginning a new movement and a large hand is extended towards her.

He does not have the courtesy to place it in her line of limited vision.

"A dance, _Ser Hellsing_? We still have a while left, and we are taught to protect an honest maiden's _virtue_ , after all."

She grits her teeth, feels the eyes upon them, and where they are now—neutral territory—she must accept this apparent gesture of good faith lest her refusal be interrupted as hostile and spark another war.

Her hand slips delicately into his palm, his fingers curl around it, and suddenly, a hand is at her waist and her open hand rests lightly at the curve of his shoulder and he leads her into a simple box step that sets her long skirt hem swaying about her in the movement.

The dance is nothing complicated, but his movements are fluid, gliding across the ballroom floor, even when she is dressed in the most modest of skirts and blazers, and this soldier-turned-Bishop of the Vatican has clearly been taught such skill, and briefly, she wonders where from.

He seems to anticipate the question, reading the tenseness between her brows as he answers.

"What is a priest but a gentleman, _Ser Hellsing_? Iscariot is taught much more than scripture. I'm sure your intelligence has told you."

He speaks English now, drawn out fluid over his tongue and it reeks of Italian smugness that makes her upper lip curl over in a sneer. And because her words are not words of peacetime at all, she wraps an arm more firmly about his back, pulling herself closer so her lips are at his ear, and he cants his head slightly to catch the venom she would but whisper from her tongue.

"Gentlemen do not dance in other people's cold blood, Niccolo."

She can feel the smirk twitching at his lips next her cheek, and they glide across the floor, feet moving in time to finely-tuned strings and the keys of the piano.

"Ah, no, no. This is _Iscariot_ , _Ser Hellsing_. We kill the good guys—heh— _then_ we dance."

"So what does that make this then? Engaging a Protestant in needless frivolity?"

His answer is two words, purred off the tongue as if speaking it was the most delectable thing.

"Strategy, _Signorina_."

The music slows, drawing to an end, and fingertips against fingertips, he guides her back to her seat—catches a glimpse of Heinkel Wolfe emerge from the shadows, keeping a bead upon her superior—and she waits for something wild and fanatical to emerge from Makube's mouth because she does believe him sane. None of them are, she is sure, but his gaze remains level—sane—and the former archbishop's predecessor he may be, his _tactics_ are not.

She is unsure if that is something that should terrify her or not.

"An exception to the rule, _Ser Hellsing_. Perhaps I would follow them if you were actually a good woman, yes?"

He raises one of her gloved hands to his mouth, and it takes all her willpower not to jerk back from the subtle brush of his lips warm across her knuckles.

It is certainly not the gesture of an ordained clergyman, and suddenly, she thinks Niccolo Makube will be far more dangerous than Enrico Maxwell ever was.

They leave the peace conference without ever truly knowing what the treaty formed behind closed doors was ever really about.

 _II._

The Queen is in Italy, and by decree, Integra has followed.

The original order is still nailed to her desk angrily by her letter opener, and while Integra does not know it, its counterpart is burning in the embers somewhere in a flat located near the Vatican.

She's twenty-six and due to be engaged in mere weeks, and her soon-to-be husband sits across the room from her, a leg propped up a knee and glasses resting upon the bridge of his nose as he reads from the Bible open on his lap, fingers flourishing over the pencil as he makes notations in the margins; prepping for next week's sermon, no doubt.

Integra finds it strange he still leads Mass, though she has never proven herself witness to it. She's sure that will change in the coming weeks.

He seems too calm, too accepting of his fate. Niccolo Makube is a holy man, and he should have been the Church's largest opponent in this union. But she supposes there is only so much one can do when the Pope himself decrees that you are to be an _exception_. It is just _business_ , after all, she tells herself.

It's been just over two years since she has seen him last, and there are more lines on his face and his skin has a slight sickly pallor, and she swears she can see his hands shake—a spasm twitching in his arms that certainly wasn't there before and in no way seems healthy.

Intelligence on the Archbishop had been scarce as of late, as if Iscariot had been keeping something from even the most secure of secrets that Hellsing can access, but with news of this treaty—this medieval political _alliance_ —such things have fallen by the wayside.

And she's the angriest she's ever been.

They are left alone as the paperwork is prepared, and she levels a steady gaze at him from across the room, arms crossed over her chest, and her legs folded atop one another neatly at the knee, and though she is missing an eye, her tone is no less confident—no less heavy with gravitas.

"I hope you don't expect me to follow through with your Pope's little plan," she informs him, jaw set, and she expects him to agree, to disagree, to do _something_ that shows he has at least _acknowledged_ the situation, but instead, he merely waves his hand in her direction—a gesture of dismissal—still not looking up from his passage.

"Yes, yes, _Signorina,_ if you wish to test your mettle against the Pope, please, be my guest. I could use some entertainment. He controls my salary and I have better things to do than worry about a virgin Protestant who has gotten cold feet."

His English has improved by leaps and bounds since their last meeting, and she grits her teeth at the verbal barb and jerks her head away from his general direction as Heinkel enters the room, and she rises with a stiff excuse to remove herself, though she notes the syringe the Paladin removes from the case in her pocket, the rolling of Niccolo's sleeves, and the disapproval in the other woman's face.

Makube replies by giving the German woman an apologetic, yet overly tired look in return, some expression twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Integra argues heatedly with the Queen when she exits the room.

She seeks to find some sense of _reason_ in her monarch as she waits to resign herself to her fate, putting up the same fight over and over again that she has been using for the past three months, but the older woman calmly brushes it aside to remind Integra that this is her duty—for the good of Queen and country—and they'd rather end this fight through an antiquated alliance than start another war. This is the price England must pay for delving into the coffers of the United Nations. Solve the issue peacefully, or they will deny further funding for reconstruction efforts.

Integra wonders if Iscariot can hear her vile words to the monarch from the next room.

But it is a futile endeavor, and the paperwork awaits her signature— _their_ signatures—and she uncaps the pen more forcefully than necessary, the cap breaking to splinters between her teeth as she signs her name on the thin solid line as if she is signing away her rights.

In a way, she is.

' _I hereby agree to the terms laid forth in this contract to better strive for peace between our nations.'_

 _Integral F. W. Hellsing Niccolo A. Makube_

And then the witnesses leave, their fates are sealed, and she's gritting her teeth in frustration, beating the far wall with a fist repeatedly, hard enough to bring her knuckles to blood underneath her gloves and leave pink, spotty handprints upon the clean white walls.

She can feel the archbishop watching from behind her.

 _III._

Integra does not care for a ceremony.

Makube does.

It is not due to some romanticized notion that perhaps they could feel something more than mere tolerance for each other or merely a show of good faith. It is simply that Makube is still an archbishop and Catholic tradition is important to his public image. He is well known for his Mass sermons and is very much in the eye of the Vatican, and Integra would be _inconsiderate_ not to realize this.

She has been in Italy for two weeks now, working from abroad in an office Iscariot has set aside for her while she speaks to Seras Victoria over conference call.

She learns Sir Islands has passed away while she has been out of the country for this treaty that is all but a _farce_.

She sends flowers and a lengthy letter of condolence because she is unable to attend. Later, when events have died down, she'll pay her respects in-person at his grave.

News has spread like wildfire about the archbishop's engagement and the papers treat it as a scandal (and truly, is it not?). The Vatican is torn down the middle in their opinion, for as much as a true clergyman may strive for peace, is not the leadership providing _favoritism?_

The prayer book feels heavy in her hands as she sits with crossed legs upon a delicate folding chair laid out in the middle of the gaudiness of the Vatican chapel, and the Bible passages feel leaden upon her tongue, even though she knows them. And she feels eyes upon her, curious, because her picture has been in the papers for weeks with speculation.

A _Protestant_ participating in Catholic Mass as a sign of good faith and quiet times to come.

She is clearly an outsider, here.

Makube is a better liturgical orator than she has previously given him credit for, and his homily is spoken in crisp, emphasized Italian so different than the fast, rapid-fire pace she has become used to, and his gestures are grand and sweeping, articulating their readings' commentary on an intimate level.

Were she Catholic, perhaps Integra would have been moved…

But she is not, and her suspicions are confirmed once the congregants are escorted out when he greets her with a hand light at the small of her back, something twitching at the corner of his lips and crinkling at the edge of his eyes.

His skin still looks as sallow as the day they signed that bloody treaty.

"Bring out the bait and they will come, _si_? The Catholic Church is full of cattle, _Signorina._ "

She's unsure whether this statement makes him a better or worse clergyman in her eyes.

A gloved hand gently guides her from the Church, up a flight of stairs and into his office where her computer and paperwork still lay in a scattered mess on his desk.

"So you do not believe in your faith, Niccolo?" she asks, jerking from the brush of his fingers, and he shrugs, turning to pull the stopper from the decanter at the side tables across the room.

He pours two highball glasses, and the bags under his eyes seem darker—more defined.

She notes an empty syringe glinting with the silver of a needle from the corner of her eye.

"No, no, I believe in a His power, _Ser Hellsing_ , but—eh—homilies are left up to interpretation, yes? Iscariot must deal in cold fact, you see, and the masses, well—heh— _don't_."

He presses a glass into her hand, takes his back in one shot before eyeing her over the rim, and she scowls, noting the challenge in his gaze, and she knocks the liquid back as well.

She is left holding back a coughing fit as she feels it burn down the edges of her throat.

His eyes laugh at her plight as he takes the empty glasses to refill them and she reaches out to grab the syringe in his coat pocket…

The glasses shatter to the floor and his hand is locked around her thin wrist hard enough to leave bruises.

"I would not take things that do not belong to you, _Ser Hellsing_."

A simple suggestion drops from his tongue on the outset, but she is aware of the threat that spits poison from his lips within, and wedged between his body and the wall, she becomes acutely aware of just how _breakable_ she is compared to his larger frame. He has almost forty-five kilograms over her, and in this position, he could easily break her hand if he so chose.

A good leader is aware when she is put in a disadvantageous situation; and Integra Hellsing knows she is currently engaged in a battle she cannot win.

She bares her teeth at him, anyways.

They test their strength against one another, and his eyes flick to his hand locked around her wrist, and he jerks back, his knuckles cracking as he forcibly unfolds his fingers, and she lets out a breath she doesn't realize she's been holding.

"Ah, but I forget myself sometimes, _Signorina._ It is clear I have overstayed my welcome. Do try to rest, _si?_ Otherwise—heh—it does not benefit either of us."

A canted head, and then she is left alone in his office rubbing at her wrist, almost feeling the divots he's left in her skin.

When the marks fail to fade over the next week, she realizes Niccolo Makube is no longer fully human.

 _Regenerator._

 _IV._

She is twenty-seven and he is twenty-five, and she's tightening the knot on her cravat and slinging a sword across her hip as if preparing for battle.

In a way, she is. She goes to _war_ on her wedding day.

There had been a gift of a dress lying on the freshly pressed sheets of her hotel bed, yet it is not modest enough for her tastes, dripping in lace and crystals, and she had sneered at its arrival.

Makube must have spent tens of _thousands_ , and it still hangs on the back of the door as if mocking her, the mirror reflecting back a knight in military attire…

She drives her sword through the bodice—watches the cloth rend to shreds—and as she unseats the sword from the wood paneling of the door, some small part of her calms.

Integra Hellsing is a _knight_ , and she will attend as one.

There's a newspaper on the nightstand with a picture of a rosary slapped haphazardly underneath an Italian headline. She recognizes it—it's familiar, and it hangs outside the window of Makube's flat in the hopes of good weather.

It's raining.

A knock at the door.

One, two, three sharp raps and the voice that greets her is a harsh rasp of German-accented English, and through the crack in the opened door, she notes Heinkel Wolfe scowling at her from the other side.

"You're late."

The words are barely words at all, formed from a shot out cheek, and Integra throws on her trench coat, brushing past her, and she can hear the other woman's cluck of the tongue in distaste, and truly, Integra does not blame her. In the year she has lived in Italy, Makube has made it no secret that he is sharing his bed with the Paladin.

She's unsure if this information was shared to spur forth some non-existent jealousy, but the tactic falls slate because, indeed, Integra does not care whom the archbishop involves in the affairs of the bedroom.

She will not be sharing it.

There is no father of the bride, there is no maid of honor, and she's completely made a _mockery_ of the ceremony by refusing to be veiled, because Makube does not deserve the _privilege_ of that tradition, and is this marriage not all but a _mockery_ anyways?

His marriage is presided by the Pope Himself, and the chairs are filled to the brim in attendance, and when she meets the archbishop at the altar, his hand extended towards her, it takes all her self-control not to spit in his eye.

She wants no part in this, even if his palm is warm over her fingers because she has been so accustomed to a hand to deathly _cold_ otherwise.

His thumb brushes soothingly over her knuckles, and he glances down as if intrigued by his hand's own movement, as if such a subtle motion is foreign to him, yet she knows the gesture does not hold a shred of affection. It is a calculated move to let her know she is on his territory now, and will continue to be, and she sorely wants to jerk her fingers from his when he laces them together.

But she can't, lest she give the well-planned charade away, and no doubt Makube sees that as a game to play—a game he is sure to _win_. The _crow_ collects shiny things for his nest, and what is she but another rare _collectable_?

Niccolo looks better this year, the tremors in hands dulled to a minor twitch she feels between his forefinger and thumb, his skin less sallow and the lines on his face slightly less haggard. Intelligence on his enhancements are still scarce and he will tell her _nothing_ , but she has seen him excuse himself less and less during meetings with the Crown—does not come back with blood dripping black and thick from between his lips, and she wonders whether Iscariot has improved their methods or if it is because he has simply called a halt to his own _dissection_ the months before his wedding.

She wonders if he will strangle her throat when they are alone tonight.

They are on two knees bent at the altar, and while she does not participate save for clasped hands and murmured prayers, how surreal she finds it, to watch this man—cassock he may wear—that has killed _hundreds_ to kneel with eyes closed and lips pressed to knuckles as he prays. An open mouth to take the Eucharist upon his tongue and drink of the wine proffered, accepting the blood and body of Christ into his own—and she wonders if he believes a word of it.

There is distaste upon her lips as she responds to prayers, despises how long and drawn out this entire process is as the congregation speaks of peace when she knows the whole of Iscariot would rather see a bullet to her head. Yet there are no interruptions—one would not _dare_ —save her own screaming in her mind, and when such words drop from her tongue—"Thanks be to God"—and a request from the Pope has them lean towards each other for a kiss that is only for _show_ , Integra knows she has all but sealed her fate.

Doom.

It is chaste and business-like, for the time and place would never allow for more, and she herself forbids it—but she can feel Makube's grin against her lips in such self-congratulatory _smugness_ that she bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he jerks back on a slight _snarl_ , crimson dotting his flesh.

She hates how warm his lips are against her own.

 _V._

When Makube closes the door to the suite behind them, Integra hears a note of finality in the latch automatically clicking into place. While the _Gran Meliá_ is no stranger to her presence, she is normally there as merely an unknown face—a guest whom is there often enough to be granted a greeting of familiarity. But now, everyone knows her face, her name, her reasoning for being there, and she wants away from the recordings, the interviews to come, the television cameras following them around. She simply wishes for a plane ride back to England and a hot shower.

She can at least get one of these.

She is quick—efficient—in unlatching her sword, stripping off her gloves—folding her trench coat over the edge of the nearby chair. As she works at her boots as she sits at the end of the bed, gloved hands join her own to pull off the leather, a gloved thumbnail tracing up the arch of her foot, and she hisses between her teeth, stiffening.

He is on his knees before her.

"I hope you don't think I will share your bed tonight, Niccolo."

She can feel a grin curve at his lips as he presses them against the side of her ankle, and she jerks her foot back, scowling.

"Ah, no, of course not, _mia moglie_ , this is simply—ah, what do you call it?—a business arrangement."

The Italian term from his lips makes her flinch—angry—a reminder of her circumstances, and she's sure that's exactly why he's using it, playing to get the upper hand.

She pushes with her heel against his shoulder, bringing him to sit on his heels, watching with a knowing smugness as she rises, walking past him to the bathroom, long fingers work at the buttons of her shirt.

She closes the door behind her anyways, knowing that he can see through the clear glass between the bed and the shower.

The water is too hot, too scalding, and in any other circumstance, she would turn the water to something more leisurely, but here—now—the only thing she does is _scrub_. She scrubs herself of the false prayers and goodwill, of his touch, of the brief press of his lips against her own until she feels the red flesh bloody and raw, and the sting of pain feels better than her current reality.

She's hardly aware when she hears the door open—a blast of cold air at her back in the steam-filled room, the glass sliding aside.

She stiffens as she feels bare fingertips trail up the curve of her spine, almost of curious of each divot and flex. His hands are more calloused than she expects, wonders if the surgeries he has had makes him run hot to the touch because the brush of sensation is _scalding_ , and there's no reason she'll admit to that explains _otherwise._

She greets him with a turned head and a hard glare over her shoulder.

"I told you I will not share your bed, Niccolo."

" _Si, si,_ so you've told me, but, heh, you've said nothing about the bath, and we have both had such long days. Of course, do forgive me I dare wish to have a shower and share a _nap_ with the woman I am married to."

Her shoulders tense as he reaches across her to grab at the bar of soap, and she sees the scarred column of his arm from the side of her eye, and she turns to face him, and while surely it exposes her _nudity_ , far be it from her to be _modest_ in the face of an _enemy._

She folds her arms across her bare breasts anyways, even if the small shower has her back pressed against the wall and the expanse of his shoulders has her all but pinned. His hand swipes against her collarbone as he pulls his arm back to begin lathering at his neck and chest.

He's making a bloody show of it, she is sure of it, and she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in annoyance.

Yet despite such calm sarcasm that would drop from his lips despite the years she has met him, his skin betrays his history and her eye trails down the knotted and scarred flesh past his right shoulder and down towards the ladder of his ribs to disappear somewhere across his back. It is as if skin as been pulled apart and kneaded back together—grafted—the scarring leathery, waxy, and thick, and while it does not _disgust_ her, somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she flinches.

She studiously refuses to look past his pelvis, and he's quick to notice, something twitching at the corners of his lips.

"See something you like, _Senora_?" A thumb rises and rims the edge of a scarred eye socket, feeling the lashes brush upon the conformer that she has yet to see anyone else dare _touch_. "Or are you simply, heh, intrigued that you are not the only one who made it out of the war _unscathed_?"

Her teeth all but grit together because is his nothing but _mocking_ , but truly, had not cared about other than her own during that one night horror show so constructed by the _Major_? And her reaction is instinctive—a symptom of _fight_ or _flight_ —and her fist lashes out, crashing hard against his jaw, his head snapping hard enough to the side with enough force that she feels the bones in his neck crack. Yet even as his shoulders begin to quake in amused laughter, _scarlet_ blooming a thin line from lower lip to chin, his eyes stay locked upon her.

She does not stay the night in the hotel.


End file.
